shewhomust | Things to do in Gruissan off-season

We came to the Mediterranean at Gruissan for no better reason than that once we had made our way through Narbonne, that was where the road took us. I almost said that it was straight ahead, and it was, but, in some five miles between the city and the sea, the road looped through genuinely mountainous country, all rocks and scrub and heights, before depositing us on the flatlands of the coast, beaches and lagoons and sandspits, and the tower at the centre of the old village the only vertical.

Gruissan is a small resort, but still manages to be three places, continuously built up yet quite separate; there is the old village, the modern port and then, separated from these by a mile of causeway along which the road and the canal run side by side, there is Gruissan Plage, row upon row upon row of chalets, holiday homes almost completely deserted on this grey Sunday on the cusp of September and October. Several of the hotels were closed, but the one which was open - the Accueil de la Place, Welcome on the Beach - was delighted to see us, and we were charmed by the warmth of our reception (and by the way their sign had the 'welcome' message carried on the image of a seagull dive-bombing anyone who lingered in the doorway).

We walked back to the old village, built on an almost circular plan around the ruined tower, below which the church glowers across the square at a monument (dated 1931) to the Chevalier de la Barre, executed in 1766 at the age of 19 for "ne pas avoir salué une procession" - for failing to raise his hat when a procession passed by (thus becoming a secular martyr, later championed by Voltaire). The following morning we returned to the market, and bought tapenade, soap made with honey, second-hand books (

durham_rambler dissuaded me from buying the paperback translation of Michael Moorcock with his name misspelled on the cover; why am I so weak-willed?) and a comic commissioned by the region to commemorate the viticulteurs' strike of 1907.

The modern port is completely new and completely fake, pastel coloured stucco buildings - more holiday lets, but for the more affluent - bordering a complex pattern of harbours full of pleasure boats, rimmed with the sort of commerce patronised by boat owners: pizza restaurants and ice cream parlours, a dealer in boats to buy or rent, the first launderette I've seen in a long time. In the wrong mood I might have hated it, and if it had been crowded I probably would have, but the bright colours on this grey day, the blend of gaiety and desolation, and the boats - I like boats, and it made me happy.

In the afternoon we walked in the wooded hills behind the town, where the path winds up, between a series of memorials, to a chapel at the top. It's known as the "Cimetière Marin", but it isn't a cemetery, because no-one is buried here: that's the point, that it's a place for those bereaved with no grave to mourn at, whose dead were lost at sea, or who died overseas and are buried far away. There's one rather fine memorial to the fishermen of Gruissan lost in the storm of 10th Ventôse year V, but mostly the succession of crosses and marble plaques are nothing special, it's the cumulative effect which is agreeably melancholy, which invites a mood of the kind associated with graveyards without itself being a graveyard - I've written before about the appeal of this. At the top of the hill the breeze wafted the pine scents of retsina from the forest, but descending again into the steamier heat of the valley was like getting into a Radox bath.

Of the two restaurants open near our hotel, on the first evening we ate moules frites at the one with the maritime theme; on the second, we ate crudités which included bulots (right, I've done that now, I won't need to do it again...) at the Spanish restaurant, while Francis Cabrel's almost-Dylan played in the background.

All the photos of Gruissan